I Want My Dad Back

Olof is a Swede. He was a good friend in high school, a bad driver, and his dad is dead. Somewhere around senior year we drifted apart but I'm not sure why. The best I can come up with is that I found new friends. Friends that ran in the same circles as girls. Friends that introduced me to my ex. I should have stuck with Olof.

I met Olof during freshman registration. We instantly clicked, talked and joked during the entire process, and succumbed to the wrestling team recruiter before leaving registration. We wrestled on the team for three years together, rode our bikes for hours on long summer days, drove to school together, and played cassette tape loading games on his Commodore 64. Olof's sister was also one of the first girls I ever kissed, which made sleep-overs doubly fun. Until her mom caught on. Senior year might have marked the end of Olof and I, but our parents remained friendly. On a regular basis our fathers went to awful movies together. If you ever wondered about the caliber of any particular flick, knowing that these two planned to attend was an indication that it would most certainly suck.

My father helped my uncle move to Virginia last week. My uncle is taking his mentally disabled sixteen year old, and leaving Chicago behind in search of a fresh start away from their massage parlor (non-therapeutic/happy ending) employed ex / mother. During the five day move, Olof's dad succumbed to a slew of organ failures, went into the hospital, and died. Not being able to say goodbye, was hard for my dad. Having suffered a loss of a similarly aged friend weeks earlier was also hard on him. Knowing his father also passed at sixty-two, harder still. Sharing an age with this triangle of death is giving him pause.

One day I will know exactly what to say to someone who has lost a loved one. That day will regrettably come when I've experienced a surplus of death and am practiced at how to approach the grieving. Until then I'm comfortable ... nay, happy that my brain and tongue are at a loss for words in such situations. Consoling Olof's newly widowed mother, I had a clear sight of the casket as I struggled with small talk. All I wanted to say was I'm sorry and cry, but the small talk continued to trickle out. Running into Olof's sister after twenty years was pleasant. Mostly because with her small talk would not do. She wasn't devoid of social grace, but she was true to her feelings when she proclaimed, through a endless supply of tears, that she wanted her father back.